by Tom Riggs
“Quite,” said Munro, “can you do a search on a company called FTP Supply SA.” He told Rudd about the logo on the helicopters that Richard had recorded. “I don’t know where it’s registered, maybe somewhere in Latin America. But do the works - directors, shareholders, connected parties. My guess is it’ll be a front company, but there must be an ultimate controlling party somewhere.”
“My speciality,” replied Rudd, “I’ll get on it now.”
“Thanks Charles. Where are we with Richard’s Jersey trusts? Any word from your man on the island.”
“Interesting one that, I called him and used your exact words – ‘are there any historic issues surrounding these trusts?’. He’s just called me back. He says that there were some issues, some kind of litigation on them, but that the details are all at the Jersey civil court.”
“So…” Munro started, but Rudd cut him off.
“So I have a man at the court now, attempting to charm his way into those files. He’s done it before, so I don’t anticipate it being a problem this time.”
“Charles, you’re a genius.”
“That’s why you hired me Jack, that’s why you hired me. See you soon.”
As Rudd hung up, Munro looked at his phone. There was a message from Anna:
“Don’t be too late tonight captain, I’ve got a surprise for you!”
Munro smiled, put the Defender into second gear and accelerated through a gap in the traffic. His theory was beginning to fall into place.
40
Half an hour later Munro marched into the office of Brook Investigations, throwing his overcoat onto the nearest chair.
“Any word from Jersey yet Charles?” he said as he paced around the room.
“Jack, we spoke half an hour ago. So no, amazingly, there is no word from Jersey. But I have found this company, FTP Supply.”
“You have? That was quick.”
“That’s the beauty of the internet Jack, most company registries are online these days. You can search them in seconds. The good news is that the first registry I searched yielded a hit.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is that FTP Supply is registered in Panama which is a notorious dead end if you’re trying to find out anything useful. In this case we have the directors of FTP and we have its sole shareholder. The directors are two Panamanian nominees so no help there. The shareholder is a blind trust registered in Lichtenstein called, originally, FTP Supply (Trust).”
“So? Surely you have a man in Lichtenstein who can tell us who controls the trust?”
“I do, and I’ve just spoken to him. Problem is it’s a national holiday in Lichtenstein so they won’t open anything until tomorrow. Even when they do, they might not tell us. They’re all so bloody rich over there, my usual methods of persuasion don’t always work.”
“Fine,” replied Munro, “there’s nothing we can do about that until tomorrow. But I think we can find the answer on a different tack. I’ve been thinking about your point on the helicopters. You’re right, there would be no point in using those choppers if they were keeping the gold in Brazil. From what the NGO girl said, it sounded like they were loading the gold ore straight into small shipping containers. It would make sense. They could then fly it over the border and truck it to a port, then ship it out as something else altogether.”
“So we should check the nearest ports for any containers being shipped out under the name FTP Supply.”
“I think we should. I’ve checked, and finding the nearest ports to the Japura River is not completely straightforward. Its thousands of miles away from both the Pacific and the Atlantic. Basically, they could have taken it north into Colombia or Venezuela or West into Peru.”
“So only every port in the northern half of South America to search then. Easy. I think it might be quicker to wait for the Liechtensteiners to open up tomorrow.”
“Don’t be sarcastic Charles, I’ve thought of that too. If they’re shipping it out in containers and they’re smuggling it, saying its not gold, then they’ll need to be shipping out of a large container port in one of those countries. Anywhere small and there wouldn’t be the ships to carry the crates, and it would be too obvious. That narrows the field a bit.”
“Certainly does. It gives us Puerto Cabello near Caracas, Callao in Peru and obviously Panama itself. Although I can’t see them flying those choppers all the way to Panama, and they’re not likely to risk trucking it through the Darien gap.” He paused. “If Hector and the Black Eagles were involved, then surely the port will be in Colombia, maybe the container port at Cartagena? I’ll start by looking there. Do you want to take the Peruvians?”
“Happy to, but you need to forget about the Black Eagles. Hector may have killed Richard Lipakos, but I don’t think it was a Colombian paramilitary who ordered his death.”
“Ah yes, your great theory Jack. I admit you were right it wasn’t drug smuggling he saw on the Japura, but I don’t see why that rules out the Colombians as suspects. The Black Eagles have their fingers in a lot of dirty pies, they’re not just drug smugglers. They control at least four gold mines in Colombia, so why not Brazil as well? But if you know something maybe now is the time to share it with me.”
Just as Munro went to answer, the buzzer on the entry phone rang. Rudd and Munro looked at each other. They weren’t expecting a visitor. Rudd got up and spoke on it, before pressing the button to open the street level door.
“Some guy called Jonathan Marshall,” said Rudd as he put the phone down, “says he’s a lawyer, says it’s concerning the Richard Lipakos investigation.”
A few minutes later and a small round man staggered into their office. It was only two short flights of stairs, but the exertion had clearly been difficult for Jonathan Marshall. He was sweating and breathing heavily by the time he came through the door of Brook Investigations. Munro and Rudd stood to greet him, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion as if he was a creature in a zoo. Because that was what he looked like, Munro realised. He looked like a big odious toad, as wide as he was tall with a chubby pinched face.
“Hi guys,” he said sticking out his hand, “Jonny Marshall, pleased to meet you.” His voice was oddly high, and pinched like his face. Munro took an immediate dislike to him. He could tell that Rudd had too. He noticed that his suit was expensive, Savile Row tailored. An odious toad in a two-thousand-pound suit.
“Hello Mr Marshall,” said Rudd coolly, “How can we help you? We weren’t aware you were coming.”
He looked momentarily confused, but quickly regained his composure.
“That’s odd,” he said sitting down unasked at a chair opposite them and putting his briefcase on a desk, “I told my secretary to ring ahead. You just can’t get the staff these days eh?” And with that he started laughing a pinched nasal laugh.
Munro sat down opposite him.
“What can we do for you Mr Marshall?”
He looked at Munro, assessed him quickly and frowned.
“Right, yes, here’s my card.” He tossed a card each to Munro and Rudd, in the attempted manner of a Las Vegas croupier. Munro looked at the card. Jonathan Marshall was a senior litigation partner at Blackman Davies, one of the biggest law firms in the world. Munro looked at Rudd and Rudd raised his eyebrows.
“Now gentlemen,” he said. “I won’t waste your time, I know we’re all busy people.” The implication was clear: I’m a busy person. Munro wondered what his hourly rate was. “I’m here at the behest of the Lipakos family. It has come to their intention that your company has been instructed by Sarah Stanfield to conduct an investigation into the death of Richard Lipakos.” He paused, waiting for either Rudd or Munro to speak. When it became clear that neither of them would, he continued.
“Yes, well, anyway. The Lipakos family understands this to be the case. Unfortunately, three days ago Sarah Stanfield was admitted to a sanatorium suffering from extreme stress. In layman’s terms gentlemen, she has suffered a n
ervous breakdown. No doubt brought about by the tragic death of her son, and her unwillingness to accept what we believe really happened. As I’m sure you know, under the Mental Health Act 2007, a person judged to be of unfit mental capacity may be detained for up to six months if the relevant medical authorities deem it necessary. In this case, power of attorney has been given jointly to myself and the Lipakos family.”
“Who do you mean when you say the ‘Lipakos family’?” said Munro, looking at Jonathan Marshall more closely now. The ivory rimmed glasses balancing on the small nose, the gold cufflinks, the heavy silk tie.
“I mean, Mr Munro, Constantine Lipakos. The father of the late Richard Lipakos and the husband of Sarah Stanfield.”
“Ex-husband,” corrected Rudd.
“Yes,” continued Marshall, “I apologise gentlemen, ex-husband. But anyway, we now have complete power of attorney over all the affairs of Sarah Stanfield.” With that he opened his briefcase and pulled out a thin A4 legal document. “You will see that this has been counter-signed by a consultant psychiatrist, as the law requires.”
Munro handed it to Rudd without looking at it.
“Go on,” he said.
“Thank you. Now, as I said, we understand that Sarah Stanfield has given you fifty thousand pounds to look into the tragic death of her son, Richard. I’m here to instruct you that we now wish this investigation to cease immediately. The Lipakos family - Mr Lipakos that is - believes that it is this investigation that directly contributed to Sarah Stanfield’s breakdown. Mr Lipakos would like to thank you for you efforts so far. For these efforts, and to cover any expenses you may have incurred, I have been instructed to give you this cheque for one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. As I’m sure you are aware gentlemen, that is a very nice amount of money for a few days’ work, very nice indeed.” His small tongue licked his lips involuntarily. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a cheque, the name of Brook Investigations typed out, and two thin agreements.
“In return,” he continued, “we ask you to cease any work on the investigation, hand over all and any files, notes and correspondence relating to the investigation and also to sign these agreements. All they essentially say is that you are not allowed to talk about this investigation with anyone. The Lipakos family are very private, gentlemen, and Richard’s death has been traumatic for them all.”
Just then the phone at Rudd’s desk rang. As he answered it, the lawyer continued, opening one of the agreements.
“So Mr Munro, all you need to do is sign here, and this nice big cheque is yours. Combined with the fifty that Mrs Stanfield gave you guys, that’s two hundred thousand for a few days’ work. Not bad, Mr Munro, not bad at all.”
Munro looked at him, his ingratiating grin, his small deep-set eyes and fat pinched face. Rudd had turned away, the call seemed important. Munro did not move for a moment, and instead stared at the lawyer some more.
“Mr Marshall,” he said slowly, carefully. “What you need to do is stand up, turn around, and get out of this building. Right now. If you are not out of this building in one minute, I’m going to start breaking your fingers.” He looked at Jonathan Marshall’ fingers. They looked like short fat sausages. They would easily snap backwards. He had broken much stronger. “I will break one finger for every ten seconds that you are still in this building after the minute is up. Do you understand that Mr Marshall?”
He looked at Munro and then to Rudd for support, but Rudd was engrossed in his conversation.
“Mr Munro, my client has made you a very generous offe…”
“Fifty seconds Mr Marshall. If you know about this case, then you know who I am. So, you best leave this building right now.”
The panic rose into his eyes as he began to realise that Munro was serious. Munro stood up and feinted to hit him. Marshall jumped back in fear and fell off his chair. Panicked into action he scrambled his various agreements into his briefcase and was out of the door in less than ten seconds. Rudd put down the phone just as the door slammed shut.
“That was quick,” he said, “what was all that about anyway? Did I just hear you threaten to break his fingers? You can’t keep doing that Jack, that guy was a solicitor, he’ll sue you or something.”
“No he won’t,” replied Munro, “he won’t be coming back here in a hurry. Who was on the phone?”
“I just got a very interesting call. Guess who from?”
“Your man in Jersey,” replied Munro walking over to the window. He smiled as he saw Marshall running down Queen Street, as fast as his heavy frame would carry him.
“Well done smart arse, and I suppose you know what he said too?”
“That Constantine Lipakos had filed a claim to have Richard Lipakos removed as a beneficiary to the Lipakos family trusts.”
“You really are annoying,” said Rudd. “If you know so much, then why did you bother asking me to find out?”
“I didn’t know Charles, I had a theory. Now we have some fact.”
“Well, I think it’s time you shared that theory. You’re right of course, annoyingly. The Lipakos Foundation submitted a claim at Jersey’s Royal Court asking for the break-up of two Lipakos family trusts and their reconstitution without Richard Lipakos as a named beneficiary. That was a year ago, the claim wasn’t resolved before Richard died and was withdrawn a week after his death…” Rudd stopped, his brain working. “Shit Jack. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Let’s get a coffee.”
Rudd and Munro were sitting at a café table on Queen Street. Outside. Munro had needed some air, needed to get out of the office. He was getting worried about that. He had been in the office barely half an hour before he had had to leave. Had to get away from the files and the computer screens. But the crisp winter air was what he needed. He and Rudd both had heavy coats on and were sitting underneath a large mushroom-shaped gas heater. Even so, it was cold. No one else was sitting outside. Steam poured out of their coffee cups as the hot liquid quickly cooled.
“So what you’re essentially saying is that Constantine Lipakos had his son killed by a Mexican assassin and then ordered him to kill Anna, and by default you. And this was all done why? Because of a dispute over a couple of trusts in Jersey? Come on Jack, rich men have disputes with their children over money all the time, but they never hire assassins to settle them. They pay pricks like Mr Marshall to go to court for them. By the way, how did you know that he was being cut out of the trusts?”
“Because,” replied Munro, “Richard Lipakos was short of money. Anna said he wanted to save money by sharing a room with her and the NGO girl said he took the cheapest boat possible up the Japura. Hardly the actions of the son of a billionaire. You saw the press reports about Richard’s older brothers, they spent their time in Mayfair nightclubs and drove around London in Ferraris. But not Richard. He was in South America, scrimping and saving. The best explanation for that was that he wasn’t getting his trust income.
“But that’s not why he was killed. He was killed because of what he saw. He saw something on the Japura, on his father’s land. Something terrible, something that made him really nervous. And what did he do? It’s what he didn’t do that matters. He did not call his father and tell him what was going on, get daddy to send a jet over and take him away. Deal with it from the safety of London or Switzerland or wherever. No. Richard stayed out in South America, seemingly on the run. He goes to a fairly obscure Caribbean island in Venezuela, keeping a low profile, staying under the radar. Why do that if help and a private jet are only a phone call away? Why do that unless you realised that what you saw on the Japura, what we now know was illegal gold mining, was being done by the very person who could save you. Your father.”
“So he’s arguing with his father about money and he sees his father is up to no good in Brazil, that still doesn’t explain why he would be killed for it.”
“That’s just it, Charles!” exclaimed Munro, “that’s why I think he was killed. His father was t
rying to cut him out of his inheritance. What does young Richard do? It’s a no brainer! He tells his father to give him the money that is coming his way or he’ll expose what old man Lipakos is doing on his so called bio reserve in the Amazon.”
Rudd paused, thinking. “Ok, possibly, that does make sense. But kill him Jack? I mean come on. Every press report we’ve read said how close the two were. They did that trip to Antarctica together. You saw the pictures, read the interview.”
“But that was two years ago. Since then, neither has made a comment about the other. All those subsequent press reports saying how close they are to each other, they were just copied from the Antarctica piece. You know how lazy journalists are. They just use cuttings to write their articles, rehashing what’s already been written. We don’t know what went on between father and son in the last year, but we do know that suddenly Constantine decided to cut Richard out of his inheritance.”
“But still Jack. Even if he was being blackmailed by his son, isn’t murdering him a bit extreme?”
“I agree Charles, and there’s something missing, something we don’t know about this case. There must have been a reason that he was cutting Richard out of his money and that reason must have been strong enough for him to then have his son killed…I thought it might be that Richard was gay, but that seems too extreme.”
